A Prison of Glass and Crystal
by KBates
Summary: "Of course I'm afraid, Jareth, that's beside the point," she says his name rather playfully. "But I'll let you in on a secret…I like pain. I cherish pain—starve for pain. Pain, power, pleasure, they're all spokes on the same wheel, Your Majesty." After years of obsessing over the Goblin King, Sarah Williams has a chance in winning her ultimate battle. A twisted fairytale, dark J.
1. A Prison of Glass and Crystal

**AN:** hello, hello. She lives! Been a while. I was visiting my parents in a suburb of NYC so I did nothing but eat, SHOP (OMG, America, the land of sales and the home of amazingly priced luxury items – it's a consumer's paradise), museum hop, and stroll around Central Park. Oh, and also sat in my room watching Batman Beyond while my dad made me sandwiches and stuff. With the crusts cut off, of course, because my dad treats me like a total princess even though I'm 32.

I also ran around Costco going 'OMG look at the size of everything!' Hmm…ever wonder 'if Costco sold sex toys…' Confession…I may be a spoiled brat and a general weirdo. *wink* I don't take either of those terms as insults.

 **Reminder:** I always log in to review – if you get an un-logged in KBates review then know it isn't me. I love owning all my obnoxious opinions.

A big thank you to everyone who sent pms and emails asking if I was okay. Never been better. Apart from an incident involving an allergic reaction to a bushy caterpillar. I wrote this story as a 'practice' round—now that that's over, I'll update my other stories soon.

 **WARNING** : Fairly dark and twisted themes. Triggers, yes, a lot of them. Underage. Psychological mind fucks. Self-inflicted harm. You name it. If you're a Bessie May, then…oh _honey_ , read at your own peril. I classify this story as a fucked up romance—doesn't really have too much of a plot though—just something different.

 **Summary** : ""Of course I'm afraid, Jareth, _that's_ beside the point," she says his name rather playfully. "But I'll let you in on a secret…I like pain. I cherish pain— _starve_ for pain. Pain, power, pleasure, they're all spokes on the same wheel, Your Majesty."" After years of obsessing over the Goblin King, Sarah Williams has a chance in winning her ultimate battle. A twisted fairytale. Rated for sex and dark themes.

 **A Prison of Glass and Crystal**

* * *

 **Little Girl [Deliberately] Lost**

 _(Sarah Williams, age 17)…_

She sits in her desk and chair unit, skirt inching up her thighs, one foot playing with the other. Her long hair falls straight onto her back, kept away from her face by a pristinely white headband—one hand idly holds a nondescript ballpoint pen while the other plays with her shirt button. Her mouth is slightly parted, and her bright green eyes spark with naïve innocence that only youth provides—her head is slightly tilted, as if she's putting all her energy in concentrating on the matter being discussed…of course, she'll be the first to point out that looks can be _misleading_. Things aren't always what they seem. She'd learned _that_ lesson the hard way.

Eyes gleaming wickedly, she slowly unbuttons the top button—all the while, her eyes focused on the screen, as if her actions are completely unconscious. Ever so slowly she lifts her head and peers into his eyes—a laugh forming at the base of her throat as she sees the sheer depth of confusion and lust in his.

 _He's probably wondering if he's imagining it_ , she thinks, _poor, poor Mr. X_ —that's what she calls him in her head. His name doesn't matter—hell, _he_ doesn't matter. Not in the long run anyway.

The next day she tortures him just a tiny bit more – it's hilarious, really, how _easy_ it is to get the relatively young economics teacher all hot and bothered. Just like the day before, she parts her lips—her soft, pink tongue slips outside every so often as she wets her lips—not exaggeratedly, but demurely. With just a _hint_ of mischief to confuse her poor teacher even further.

She knows what he's capable of—the year before last, there'd been some rumors concerning him and a fellow student. She'd been one of _those_ girls, with a few friends, exaggeratedly pear shaped—the ones who spent a bit too much time reading and quoting the Bronte sisters, the ones who got chosen absolutely _last_ for softball. The ones who played the most _inelegant_ instrument in the school band… _that_ girl had played the clarinet. _So_ many ridiculous jokes had been made just because of her unfortunate choice in instrument. Rumor had it that he'd gone after her—that he'd forced her to do… _certain_ things. And how the other girls had laughed and laughed and laughed. Why would the most gorgeous teacher in school go after someone like _that_?

Sarah frowns—she knows exactly why. Predators go for prey that can't fight back—prey that wouldn't be believed. Sarah had seen the poor girl cry her heart out in the bathroom day after day until she'd transferred to another school. It's not as if Sarah'd felt sorry for the girl—after all, she'd always been a bit defective when it came to…. _feelings_. It's not as if Sarah's sense of justice pushed her towards taking action.

No…Sarah Williams is motivated by something _else_ entirely. Perhaps it's the need, the _abject_ need, to feel as if she's on top of the power food chain. Perhaps it's sheer boredom with everyday mundane life. Whatever the case, her sights are set on Mr. X and dethroning him from his predatory throne.

The day after, she goes for the kill.

Under the guise of misunderstanding a basic theory, she sits across from him—a generic teacher's desk, between them—her text book wide open. She suppresses a delightful grin as she sees him falter every few seconds, making sure to keep his legs crossed.

Mr. X is young…for an _economics_ teacher anyway. He has curly black hair and a boyish grin – one that earns more than a few sighs from most girls and a few boys in his class. He's pretended to be clueless to most of it, but there's something about Sarah Williams he cannot ignore. Perhaps it's the sparkle of purity in her eyes or perhaps it's the manner in which she seems to hang onto his every word, but it's fairly clear, that his body's reactions to this slip of a girl will lead to nothing but trouble. She's not the type that's easy to control…not like the _last_ one had been.

"Have I done something to offend you, sir?" She makes sure to keep her voice light and innocent, and her eyes wide as saucers. "I've noticed you don't look at me when you speak to me."

He coughs, something tightens in his chest when he registers how hurt she sounds. Perhaps she cares about him…perhaps she's easier to handle than he'd previously thought. "I'm sorry, but I completely forgot that I have a dentist's appointment this afternoon, Sarah—how about we continue our discussion during class tomorrow." In a classroom full of other _children_ , he emphasizes the word in his head.

 _Perfect_.

Slowly, she wills tears into her eyes and allows them to fall down her pretty face—she's a perfect little actress when it comes to crying when necessary. "I know you're making that up to avoid me," she whispers, standing up and walking up to him on the other side of the desk in his tiny office. "At least tell me why."

For the life of him, he cannot speak as she runs her fingers down his face. "Sarah," he warns—unfortunately, his voice comes out more desperate than firm. "Please-" he is abruptly cut off as she sits on his lap, straddling his hips, her legs dangling on either side of his chair. "You need to leave, Ms. Williams," he says gruffly.

Oh how she wants to laugh—but she doesn't. Instead, she allows a lone tear to fall down her cheek until it reaches the edge of her upper lip. She allows a few seconds to pass before licking it with her tongue. Just that second, she grinds against him—the heat of his erection making her gasp. In moments like these, she feels the most powerful—the air is thick with need as Mr. X breathes anguished, shallow breaths, trying his damnedest hard to cool down his desire.

This time, she almost lets out a laugh before controlling herself—there is _no way_ Mr. X will escape her trap. "I think of you all day," she whispers, looking into his warm brown eyes—somewhere, deep in the recesses of her twisted mind she thinks of another pair of eyes, ones completely different. She sweeps the image away as she leans in to whisper in his ear, "I know it's wrong…but I just can't _help_ it."

He sits there, frozen as a 17-year-old grinds against him. This hasn't ever happened to him before—the previous times he's been involved with students, well— _he's_ always had full control. He feels her wet warmth coat the fabric of his pants as he places a hand on her thigh to stop her. Or so he believes.

She moans as his fingers grasp her thigh—just a tiny little sting of pain is enough to make her absolutely ravenous.

 _Pain and power. Power and pain._

With delicate fingers she unbuckles his belt and frees him from the confines of his no-nonsense khakis. Probably from the GAP. How generically teacher-like, she scoffs as she runs her fingers along his length before grasping him firmly. "You need this," her voice comes out low, almost commanding. "I've seen you stare at me in class." She caresses him with one hand and removes her panties with the other. "But I'm not going to move forward unless you tell me you want it. Do you want your dreams, sir?"

A fog of insurmountable lust and heat overtakes all rational sense of thought. "Yes," he says, pulling her roughly against his body. "God help me, I do." Saying that, he enters her swiftly, an agonizing groan escaping his lips as he feels how wet she is.

She moves, rocking up and down—clenching against him as he thrusts upwards. But she isn't satisfied… _no_ , she needs him to lose control…only _then_ will she get the satisfaction she so depravedly craves.

"Is this what you imagined fucking me would feel like?" she asks, one hand roughly pulling her shirt over her head—she laughs a strangled laugh when he rips her thin, cotton bra off her slight frame. He's getting there, she thinks. Throwing her head back, she moans as he takes her breast into his mouth with rough lips, but no teeth.

She smiles at him slowly… _deliberately_. "I need more."

When asked in the future what came over him then, he will not be able to articulate the line of thought that controlled his actions—something…just…snaps. A form of desire fueled madness overtakes him and he stands up, lifting Sarah Williams' petite body and forcing her to bend against his desk.

She cries out when her nipples scrape against the rough wooden surface, relishing the sensation. A low, guttural moan escapes her throat when he enters her from behind. She feels his hands on her slim neck—her pulse beats frantically with anticipation as his fingers tighten. _Yes_ …

She can barely quiet the hoarse moans coming out of her mouth as her pleasure builds, his fingers providing just the right amount of pressure to restrict but not cut off airflow to her lungs. His thrusts grow rapid enough to indicate his own release—his moans, unlike hers are sharp, harsh…almost _distressed_. As if there's a part of him that knows how wrong he is in doing this…in fucking her. But he's powerless to stop—and that's the thought that makes her go over the edge as she convulses with pleasure, clenching him tight enough to prompt his release as well.

Just as they fall against each other on the desk, a tangle of sweat covered limbs and heaving chests, the door to his office blasts open and the tiny five foot principal of Sarah's high school almost faints in shock.

Mr. X doesn't notice, but a victorious grin spreads across Sarah Williams' face.

* * *

The trial, if one could call it that, is held completely within closed doors, because she's underage. She sits in court and in the conference rooms, just as she had in school, wearing an Oxford shirt tucked into a pleated skirt. An old fashioned outfit to be sure. Her face holds the same innocence it's always held.

The judge is beyond disgusted—a beautiful, innocent minor sexually abused by someone in a position of power. So are the lawyers, his included. But Sarah Williams doesn't say a single word against her perpetrator. She acts distraught when her lawyer tells her that the fault was and is entirely his. Her father and mother, of course, don't see it that way—not that they see the 'fault' as hers either. They place the blame where they've _always_ placed blame—on each other.

Her father says Sarah is in desperate need of a maternal figure, which Linda, obviously isn't. And her mother says Sarah needs her father in her life and not a man who's seemingly replaced his family, complete with a golden haired child. Sarah Williams only rolls her eyes and hums a little tune to herself as she wonders whom she'll battle next.

In the end, her mother gives her the keys to a brand new Mini Cooper, and her father buys her the perfect wardrobe for college and keeps repeating the phrase 'fresh start' a million times. She smiles to herself— _fresh start indeed._ It's not as if she blames either of her parents – _nah_ , she's every bit of mommy's girl and daddy's princess. Their most damaging traits are possibly cluelessness and mutual dislike of each other—neither of which has caused her any deep childhood trauma. She figures she's just born somewhat defective—normal people didn't have this insatiable hunger for power that came with fucking with other people's lives, _did they_?

* * *

The night before she's to leave for college, she sits by her vanity mirror—to an outsider it looks as if she's talking to herself, but she knows _he's_ listening.

He _has_ to be listening.

She tells him of her little conquest, her little power-play—her indifference to the consequences of seriously fucking up a man's life—not that he didn't deserve it. The thrill she'd felt when he'd lost it and held her down, when he'd held onto her neck. Sharp shivers of pleasure travel down her spine as desire pools in her gut.

"I know you watch me," she whispers, before slowly stripping off her heart printed pajamas. She can feel it— _his magic_ —a tangible entity making her blood run hot. She sits on her bed, back against the headboard, a fluffy pillow under her hips. Closing her eyes, she reimagines the experience, only with _him_ this time.

Would he have pushed her down? Clasped her neck, exerting pressure on her pulse? She muffles her moans as her dainty little fingers circle her clit—she has a feeling he'd do much, _much_ more than just that.

* * *

 **Memories of an Ancient God**

 _(Sarah Williams, age 23)…_

"We've been able to isolate the fact that you need to feel powerful in order to enjoy sex—we haven't explored _why_. What are your thoughts on that…?" The good doctor always mutes down his questions.

She shrugs, knowing full well what he wishes to hear—that her experience with Mr. X had scarred her for life. She snorts at the thought—she knows _that_ isn't true at all. The fucked up concoction of pain, sex, power, pleasure, and dominance has nothing to do with Mr. X…no, they have everything to do with _him_.

She closes her eyes, imagining his cruel face—imaging how he'd laugh at her pathetic attempts to capture his attention. Attention he _hadn't_ bestowed upon her even once, not directly anyway—as if he doesn't find her worthy enough. _Arrogant bastard_.

Swallowing her rage, she comes back to her therapy session and smiles widely at her psychiatrist. "It's not as if I don't enjoy what I'm doing, Good Doctor"—that's her ridiculous name for him, _Good Doctor_. He thinks it's an affectionate nickname given by a vivacious patient, but it's so much _more_ than that. After all, _his_ name doesn't matter either.

"Regardless," the doctor begins, his tone infinitely patient. "You've told me that you think your behavior is linked to childhood trauma, but it doesn't concern your economics teacher. Am I correct…?" Same muted tone.

She smiles—her emerald eyes glowing with mischief. "I wouldn't call it trauma."

"Event, then. A _significant_ event."

Her smile widens. "Not exactly. A significant… _figure_ …maybe."

The doctor raises a brow. "A figure…I'm guessing a man…?"

She laughs aloud—her head thrown back, her voice low and musical. "He's most definitely _not_ a man."

It's the doctor's turn to smile—he normally keeps emotions out of his face when talking to patients, but there's something about this one that he just can't resist. "Very well then, a male figure that you value."

She ponders the thought. "He's so much more than a male figure—he's pure magic and power. He's like an ancient god of sorts, forgotten by most of humanity but always there…" her voice trails off as she dives deep into her thoughts. She's never quite figured out _what_ he is—and in the end, she figures, defining him doesn't matter one bit.

The doctor raises both his brows at 'ancient god.' Her definition of this man fits in with textbook dissociation caused by trauma—yet, _something_ doesn't quite add up. He's never seen a trauma victim act in such an… _empowered_ …manner. He decides to humor her. "This god of yours—has had some impact on your behavior, am I correct?"

Her eyes twinkle in response—he'd lost his muted tone. " _Impact_?" she says with a laugh. "He has _everything_ to do with my behavior, Good Doctor." She gives him a flirtatious wink combined with a sly smile.

"Do you hope to gain his attention?"

She bites back a witty retort, her thoughts turning somber by the second. "Always," she replies with a sigh, "…I gave up on that a long time ago, he's kept his distance. But I want so much more than just his attention—I want to possess him. His power, magic, strength—everything. I want to _win_."

The doctor's eyes are wide and lips parted—Sarah Williams isn't a trauma victim at all. Her behavior and thought pattern indicate a deep, unhealthy fixation…one that borders on being delusional. "What…what is it that you think you'll win?"

Her lips spread out into a predatory smile. "Let me _show_ you, Good Doctor."

* * *

He roars with laughter until tears stream down the harsh lines of his face.

 _She_ …?

Possess _him_?

 _His_ power?

* * *

 _(A few months later)…_

The Good Doctor has his license revoked for being intimately involved with a patient.

* * *

 **An Imperfect World**

 _(Sarah Williams, age 26)_

Sarah dusts off an imaginary piece of lint from her jacket, annoyed with the woman sitting across from her. _How overtly dramatic_ , she thinks, as the woman stares into her face, her eyes blazing with righteous anger.

"I'm sorry, Caitlyn, I'm clueless as to what _I_ can do for you," Sarah tells her, her tone absolutely bored.

Caitlyn's eyes burn even brighter. "You've ruined my life, my family—you've put my children through hell, and you say you're _clueless_?!" She spits out her words as she clenches her fists to keep from trembling.

Sarah stares back at her evenly, her eyes an icy shade of jade. " _I_?" she stresses with a raised brow. "I've done nothing to you, Caitlyn. The person you should be having this conversation with, is your husband. _He_ was the one who's ruined your life, as you so dramatically put it, based on the choices he's made."

Just like that, Caitlyn's anger dies out and exhaustion overtakes her features. It's not as if she's wrong—it is indeed her husband who'd broken his vows, not _this_ bitch. "It doesn't matter to you at all does it? That our life is thrown into chaos—we'll never be the same family again."

Sarah only shrugs in response—Mr. Family Man had been a different sort of victory. He'd been too… _perfect_ …and that had caught her attention almost instantly. The gorgeous, tall, athletic man who'd married a beautiful, woman with a great career—they lived in a perfect house and had three perfect little children. A delighted smile twists Sarah's full, glossy lips…until _she'd_ come along that is.

At Sarah's rather amused smile, Caitlyn's anger returns tenfold. "He thinks he's in _love_ with you and you find this _funny_? You stupid slu-"

"Let me stop you right there, Caitlyn," Sarah cuts in, her voice now sharp and commanding. "I don't find your situation funny at all, I find it _pathetic_. It wasn't very difficult for me to go after him, to show him attention, to laugh at his stupid jokes—that's all it took along with a bit of… _ego_ …stroking." A cold smile spreads across her face. " _He_ , on the other hand, was quite insatiable—so perhaps your perfect life wasn't so perfect after all. It amazes me that a woman like yourself, a _beautiful_ one with a _decent career_ , would be so quick to point the finger at me, instead of your husband. _He's_ the one who betrayed you— _he's_ the stupid slut."

A flash of hurt passes through Caitlyn's eyes. "You don't care about him, do you? You don't even want him."

"Mr. Family Man?" Sarah scoffs. " _Of_ _course_ not."

Caitlyn's pretty face settles into a look of utter despair mingled with rage. "Then why-"

Sarah stands up before Caitlyn can complete her question, essentially cutting her off. For a brief few moments, she looks away, not wanting the woman to see a trace amount of wistfulness reflected on her own face. She wonders what it would be like to feel the range of emotion that Caitlyn feels—betrayal, hurt, and now humiliation. _What would it have felt like to be normal_? Sarah curses _him_ as she pushes these thoughts away. She's never had a chance to be normal—not after she met him anyway.

"Because I could," Sarah answers, her tone is detached, but a cruel grin stretches her lips. "I wanted to feel the rush of destroying something so seemingly _perfect_. Winning a battle with such an emotionally and morally committed opponent made me absolutely delirious with ecstasy." Saying that, she leaves a dumbfounded Caitlyn behind as she walks away.

Caitlyn stares at Sarah's retreating form, her anger now converted to full blown fear. The way her eyes had lit up to an eerie shade of bright green…the way her body stood absolutely still…a shiver runs down Caitlyn's spine. There is no doubt in her mind that Sarah Williams, is dangerous. And possibly crazy.

* * *

He leans back, a leather clad hand idly plays with a perfectly shaped cylindrical crystal. Mortal or not, the girl certainly possesses his cruelty. He smiles in spite of himself—he can't help but be a little impressed.

Now all he has to do is wait for the right moment. As an immortal being, he has all the time in the world. And _then_ some.

* * *

She sits by her vanity—a grownup one, completely different from the one she had in her father's house. Her room is only lit by candle light—giving it an eerie glow. She stares into the mirror—she stares until her eyes lose focus, until the colors blur together and everything turns shapeless.

 _Goblin King, Goblin King_.

She stares into her own eyes—twin flames of emerald. These little conquests aren't enough to keep her satisfied—she wants more. She wants _him_.

Flipping open her silver lighter, she stares at the golden flame. Ever so slowly, she places the palm of her hand atop the fire—she keeps it there, feeling the sting of pain that rapidly becomes stronger by the second—she keeps it there until she knows that the flame's going to leave a mark. Throwing her head back, she moans, relishing the pain as it slices through the icy numbness of her heart.

* * *

 **A Pair of Crystal Shoes**

 _(Sarah Williams, a few months later)…_

"I tells ya, missy, ya stays away from the King, it's better for ya. For us all."

Sarah rolls her eyes at her surrogate guardian slash friend of sorts. "You're telling me it's a party, full of a _million_ different guests. And you say he's completely forgotten about me—he's never even going to notice I'm there." Her eyes gleam strangely as a new obsession overtakes her thoughts—all her life she's been dethroning top predators and ruining fake illusions— _this_ , this is her _ultimate_ challenge. If the Goblin King had been entranced by her inexperienced 15-year-old self, he'd stand no chance against her now.

The dwarf groans with frustration—he's known his little missy long enough to realize that there's no deterring her when she gets the maniacal gleam in her eyes. But the King's _dangerous,_ dammit! Hoggle understands that even though Jareth hasn't so much as mentioned Sarah's name in passing, he isn't someone to be trifled with.

"Hog- _gle_!" Sarah raises her voice as she speaks, breaking the dwarf out of his thoughts. "Now tell me what I should wear—and figure out a portal I can use to get there."

* * *

 _(The Goblin King's Masquerade Ball)…_

She walks through the throng of delirious dancers without a care in the world, her movements as graceful as theirs. She's not fifteen anymore—and even then, she'd been more intrigued than afraid. _Curious_ even. Having been a striking child who grew up to be a beautiful adult, she's never felt insecure about her looks—it doesn't matter to her that the attendants of this debauched party are too beautiful for words. Their beauty is in sync with nature—they're _meant_ to be beautiful—beautiful predators who mesmerize unwitting, timid little preys. _Sarah Williams is no timid prey_ —she scoffs at the thought.

 _Her_ beauty is different from theirs—she's human, she's meant to be flawed. Yet here she stands, her face perfectly symmetrical, her cheekbones razor sharp, and her eyes as cold as theirs, yet paradoxically bright—her beauty is an _exception_ while theirs is the _rule_. In her mind, this makes _her_ exceptional. She feels immense satisfaction at the thought.

Although she glides across the floor, one foot in front of the other, in search of her ultimate prey, her steps are measured—almost as if they're controlled. Hoggle told her that according to folklore, the Goblin King's magic is neutralized by the very crystals from which he derives his powers—therefore, she wears a pair of fitted pumps made entirely of crystal. Her sheer dress is studded with crystal beads and her hair is decorated with tiny little crystals that look like stars in a sea of sable. On her face she wears a crescent mask, one fashioned after a fox. _How fitting_ —she very much feels like a fox who's sneaked into a henhouse.

Frustrated after an hour or two, she grabs a glass of sparkling wine from a passing server's tray and downs the contents.

 _Where the fuck is he?_

 _Fuck him._ She notices a dark haired man wearing a hawk mask and grins wickedly. She can definitely improvise to catch his attention.

* * *

He smiles a slow and lethal smile—her agitation is so immense that he can almost _taste_ the emotion in the air. He slowly makes his way from the very edge of the ballroom, towards the center where she seems to have caught the attention of a former lover of his—a young noble with a weakness for humans.

Amusement softens the harsh lines of his face as he watches her draw his guest's attention—even in a room full of beautiful immortals, Sarah Williams has the power of drawing everything towards herself. He watches her trace her fingers along the young male's face, lingering just a few seconds to adjust his mask.

* * *

She feels his eyes on her, his strange, _strange_ eyes as she dances with the hawk-masked man—she feels a tingly sensation on her skin. Tiny hairs on her arms and neck stand up, as if charged with electricity—her heart thuds riotously and her blood runs hot as she clenches her fists, resisting the overwhelming urge to turn around and look at him.

A thousand volatile thoughts run through her head. _Will he remember her? Does she even want him to? Will she succeed in her mission? What if he finds her pathetic? What if he laughs at her sends her off?_ Shaking those traitorous thoughts away, she excuses herself from the dance and makes her way towards him— _still_ , she doesn't look him in the eyes. Having never been one for insecurity, she realizes that she doesn't quite like feeling so helpless, so… _unsure_ of herself. But then again, she also feeds off the nervous energy—battles that are easy to win are no fun after all.

When she _does_ raise her eyes to look at him, he isn't there. She inhales a sharp breath of disappointment. _Where the fuck could he_ -

"Are you looking for someone in particular?"

Miraculously, she's able to keep herself from jumping as his deep, melodic voice rings through her ear. He leans into her, enough so that he's not touching her directly, but close enough that she can feel his breath on the skin of her neck.

"Not really," Sarah answers, relieved when her voice comes out normal.

A rich, throaty laugh. "Pity—I was under the impression that you were looking for me, little fox."

His amusement is just the leverage she needs to contain her emotions—her eyes harden as she turns around to face him. "Then you were mistaken."

Magic thrums through his veins as she locks him in with her emerald gaze. He's had countless lovers with shocking green eyes, but none had matched hers. Hers possessed a unique combination of ice and passion. "I meant no harm, little fox. Just that this is _my_ party and I'm not sure as to who you are and whether I invited you."

She feels an odd sense of despair and relief when he doesn't recognize her straight away—she parts her lips as she peers into his dissonant gaze. He stands just as he had all those years ago—tall, thin, and sharp— _divine_. He's dressed in a royal blue suit that doesn't follow any fashion trend from her world. The color contrasts starkly with his pale complexion, giving him a menacing look. She scoffs mentally at the thought— _as if the bastard needs to look more menacing._

Once she regains her bearings, she relaxes her shoulders and gives him a suggestive wink. "I'm no one of consequence and you most definitely did _not_ invite me, Your Majesty. Am I in trouble?"

He gives her a disarming smile. "Possibly."

It's her turn to laugh. "An ominous answer, Your Majesty—give me a chance to redeem myself, at least."

"My lady makes demands, not requests," he says with a raised brow. "Although…I _suppose_ I could let you off the hook if you tell me who you are. There's something about you that feels… _familiar_." He raises a gloved hand to smoothen a lock of her hair.

Her breath catches in her throat—she can feel the beating thrum of his magic even through his gloves and her body reacts instantly. A slow rush of desire pools in the gut as her heartrate spikes upward. Even so, she forces herself to remain calm and says, "That's the one thing I can't divulge—I'm afraid I'll have to pay my penance some other way."

"The _only_ thing you can't divulge?"

Her eyes sparkle with equal measures of lust and amusement—having him so close gives her a high like nothing else. She feels like wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him until he cannot breathe. Of course, she's going to do _much_ more than just kiss him—and then she's going to leave via the portal Hoggle's arranged for her, deep in the cellars of the castle. Looking at the ornate clock in the center of the room, she frowns when she realizes she has only three hours remaining—the portal is only open until 13 o'clock. She smiles slyly—"I do have to leave before midnight, Your Majesty—perhaps we could have a different, more _productive_ conversation elsewhere."

His grin is sharp enough to cut through glass—"the mystery deepens. At least tell me why you have to leave by midnight."

"My King makes demands, not requests," she says, her eyes alight with wicked mirth as she mimics his words while evading his question. She leans in close enough to whisper in his ear, "Will you make other demands as well, Your Majesty?"

The glow in his dual eyes turns feral. "No. I don't believe _you'd_ be able to fulfil my demands." His voice is cold and mocking—he knows _just_ the things to say to get a rise out of her.

 _It works._

Her eyes narrow as she pulls back to face him. "Perhaps you're not giving me enough credit."

"Perhaps…perhaps _not_ ," he lilts, voice deep yet teasing. "Perhaps I'm saving you from a fate you cannot accept." _Cannot escape_.

She laughs at that. "How dramatic of you, _Your Majesty_. If you think warning me is going to keep me at bay, you don't know me well enough. I'm more likely to do the exact opposite just to prove you wrong."

He shares her laughter. "I don't know you at all, little fox," he lies with the skill of the devil—he knows _exactly_ which strings to pull to make her dance to his tune.

Looking him directly in the eye, Sarah Williams gives him her best, elusive smile—one that never fails to intrigue. "Would you like to?"

Just like that, the lines on his face realign—his face is carved out of marble, and his eyes turn to ice. A cruel smile curls the corners of his lips as he coils his fingers through her hair and pulls down, _hard_. "The question is—would _you_ like to get better acquainted with _me_ , little fox?"

His fingers tighten in her hair—she sighs, the pain is… _exquisite_. "To get better acquainted with you, Your Majesty…" she breathes the words, grinning from ear to ear—if he expects fear, he's going to be sorely disappointed, "…is _the_ sole reason I'm here."

He lets her go with enough force that she stumbles on her feet. "You seem highly sure of yourself."

"It's a personality trait I was born with, can't help it," she quips—the grin remains on her face. She readjusts her hair and steps back a little. A small smile plays on her lips when she notices a gloved hand reach out—as if trying to stop her from moving away.

"What is it that the mortals say, little fox? Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." He swoops down and captures her wrist in one of his leather clad hands in an unrelenting grasp.

Mock struggling against his hold, she rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. "Here I am, offering to give you my body and soul for the next three hours, and you bring up some old Biblical cliché. You _disappoint_ me, Your Majesty."

He eyes her evenly for a few moments. "A mere mortal among vicious, immortal creatures—aren't you afraid?" His tone is calm, eerily so. His eyes, however, burn with icy fire—his body is tense, like that of a predator waiting to pounce.

She knows she _should_ be afraid—she'd forgotten how… _intense_ …he could be. He's close enough that she can feel the heat from his skin, the flow of his magic. Slow, pulsing desire overtakes her senses—her breathing deepens. "No."

A slow, dark chuckle. "You're an unconvincing liar, little fox." His lips brush against the sensitive skin of her ear as he whispers, "Since you've made such an effort, _solely_ for my benefit—it seems hardly fair for me to deny you what you want." Saying that, the Goblin King envelopes her with his magic, transporting them to the glass box he's prepared specifically for her.

* * *

 _(Prison of Glass)…_

She frowns as she scans the room—if one can call it that. She's in a glass box that's fashioned as a sparsely furnished room, complete with fire place that sports a roaring fire.

"Lost your nerve already?"

She jumps—his usually rich voice sounds even deeper in the confines of this glass prison. Taking in his feral smile, she doesn't bother refuting him.

"Where are we?" she asks. She'd been under the impression that he'd take her to his room—hell, she'd worked out her escape plan accordingly. A shiver of cold panic runs down her spine— _what the fuck is she going to do now_?!

He leans back against the glass, eyes intent on hers—drinking in her newfound discomfort. "I call it the room of glass and crystal—it's situated within my chambers. Don't you find it beautiful?"

 _Not at all_ —she finds it frighteningly similar to the warped ballroom of her nightmares. "How do you _leave_ this box…" she coughs as her voice turns squeaky. "Where's the door?"

Raising a perfectly arched brow, he crosses his arms. "I was under the impression that you would like to get better acquainted with me, little fox." He tilts his head, studying her every small move. "As I don't quite need doors to travel, I didn't construct any…not for _this_ particular room."

 _Breathe…breathe slowly_ , she commands herself to keep her growing panic at bay. "Are you planning on keeping me here…" she murmurs, "…as a prisoner?"

Rich laughter. "No. I shall release you before the strike of midnight."

Releasing a sharp breath in relief, she fights to regain her composure. _Bastard is playing with her on purpose_ —he stands far from her, a smug smile on his cruel lips. The fact that it's worked sends a bright surge of anger up her chest. She smiles a smug smile of her own—she'll turn the situation around soon enough.

Walking up to him slowly, she whispers, her lips ghosting against his, "I have a small request to make, Your Majesty." She peers at him through her lashes. "Promise me you'll stand still as long as you can."

A raised brow. "Very well."

She does her best to mimic his feral smile. "Uncross your arms."

His brow remains raised, but he does as she asks—blood rushes to his groin and lust flows through his veins. He knows what's coming next.

"Very good," she whispers, slowly divulging him of his jacket—she allows the silky fabric to fall onto the floor. Locking her eyes with his, she unbuckles his belt and unclasps the archaic hooks of his pants. "Tell me what you want from me, _Your Majesty_ , I'm all yours to command." There's a mocking edge to her tone.

He laughs at her in spite of his surmounting lust— _oh, precious, you're not going to win this time_. "Use your imagination. But first," he waves his hand and unveils her face, making her fox mask disappear. "I must warn you that this glass box, as you call it, is situated within my chambers—wherein some of my guards are always present."

Without giving much thought to his warning, she slowly unclasps the ties to her dress and steps out of the garment. She commends herself on her choice of sheer black bra and matching panties as she notices his normal pupil dilate to match the other one. "I'm not a little girl, Your Majesty," she teases, slowly sinking to her knees, "a bit of exhibitionism doesn't scare me." _Hell, it probably has the opposite effect_ —she thinks with a smirk.

He lets out a low hiss when she pulls down his trousers—the anticipation of her touch makes him painfully hard.

Her fingers trace patterns on his upper thighs as she plays with him—her lips trace the contours of his sharp hip bones and her fingers edge closer towards his erection. She tortures him until he is fully erect and throbbing—until thick, viscous liquid collects at the tip of his cock. Only then does she look him in the eye from her position—her knees on the floor, her hair a wild mess. "I'm going to make you beg for mercy, Your Majesty."

Throwing his head back against the wall he groans agonizingly as she swallows him whole, her lips and tongue working in ways he'd never imagined mortals even knew how. The minx isn't lying when she says she's going to make him beg—she keeps working on him until he's tense with pressure, with the unbearable need to come—come _hard_. But she doesn't let him. And just as he hovers on the razor sharp edge of release, she let's go of him—laughing as he lets out a hiss in protest.

"It's too soon, Your Majesty," she says, looking up at him with a devilish wink before taking him in her mouth again to repeat her actions. Her own lust blazes high when she hears his moans and sighs of pleasure—the occasional hiss when she knows he's close to orgasm. Her low pulsing desire transforms into a full-blown wet need in her core. Arousal seeps into her panties and runs down her thighs— _God, she's wet_. She releases him as she feels his thigh muscles tense, signaling that he's close to the edge.

"Gods, mortal," he says roughly, his breathing ragged. "You're well trained in the art of torture."

She raises a playful brow—instead of answering him, she takes a hand and pinches a nipple through the sheer fabric of her bra, letting out a gasp at the tingle of pleasure. "I have you for three hours, Your Majesty—I don't want this to be over too soon," she half moans as she says the words, her fingers creeping underneath the flimsy fabric of her panties—her forefinger playing with her swollen clitoris.

He can only stare, his lips parted, his chest raging with pure, unadulterated, lust, as she brings herself to a shuddering climax. Her eyes shut, eyebrows scrunched, chest heaving. It takes a tremendous amount of self-control not to push her down and thrust into her with as much force as he can muster.

As the tremors from her orgasm die down, she glances up at him—impressed that he didn't lose control. She knows that he's hanging by a thread, a thread she can't wait to rip apart. Standing up abruptly, she brushes her breasts against his body and leans in. Staring him in the eye, she slowly brings her hand to her lips and sucks her forefinger clean. "Would you like to taste me, Your Majesty?" Without giving him a chance to respond, she covers his mouth with hers in a brutally possessive kiss.

A hoarse noise escapes his chest before his instincts kick in—wrapping his arms around her waist, he kisses her with equal passion…perhaps _more_. His tongue enters her mouth, _invades_ her, and his sharp teeth nip her lips until he draws blood. The unique taste of her drives him to madness—he kisses her as if he wants to drink in her very being.

Her knees go weak at his assault—the feel of him, his mouth possessing hers is too much for her to take. She knows that if he continues kissing her, she'll lose any semblance of control she owns—the thought is sobering enough that she pushes against his chest and pulls away.

They stand inches apart, both torn by raw passion—chest heaving, eyes completely darkened with lust. She doesn't know who makes the first move, but within seconds, they're on the giant bed that's situated in the middle of the glass box.

He lays her down and straddles her hips—his cock pressing against her wet, swollen flesh. "My turn, little fox." Saying that he parts her legs, placing her knees on his shoulders before thrusting into her with merciless power.

She half moans, half screams out her pleasure as his brutal thrust settles into a less forceful rhythm. Her hands grasp at the sheets so she can brace herself better, but that only gives her a tiny bit of control. The sound of flesh against flesh, smell of sweat, sharp bite of teeth—threaten to drive her insane. But she wants _more_.

"Jareth," she whimpers, her mind doesn't register that she's used his name, "I need to…" her voice dies out as his thrusts now become excruciatingly slow. "Jareth."

"What do you need?" He shudders when she wraps her legs around his waist, pulling him further into her—fighting for dominance. _No, precious—not yet_.

"I need to come," she hisses in frustration as his thrusts become even more measured. She yelps when the head of his cock touches a spot deep within her that makes her muscles clench and release—she's so wet, she can hear him move in and out of her. But she wants _more_.

"Jareth." Her voice comes out in a desperate pant.

He obliges her, _mercifully_ —his rhythm increases as he pushes deeper and deeper into her until he loses himself—she claws at his back, her nails draw blood. Pleasure and pain are no longer distinct entities as the wave of pleasures crests before plunging both lovers into frenzied release.

* * *

 _(Some time later)…_

She awakens to the sound of chiming bells—it takes her a few moments before she realizes that the clock's struck midnight. Scrambling up, she leaps off the bed—letting out a startled shriek when she realizes she's naked.

"In a hurry, are you?" The Goblin King leans against the wall, one leg bent at the knee—foot flat against the glass plane. The first thing she notices is that he's fully clothed—not in royal blue silk, but in midnight black leather. The second thing she notices is the victorious smirk on his face.

"Your Majesty…you…you said you'd let me leave before midnight." Her eyes dart across the floor until they settle on her crystal shoes—wrapping herself in a silken sheet, she half stumbles, half runs towards them and slips them on. Hoggle had said crystal would neutralize his magic, hadn't he?

He stands perfectly still save for a twitch of his lips. " _Did_ I?" He fixes his dual gaze on her for a few moments, feeding off her apprehension. "Very well then, you're free to leave." With a wave of his hand, he opens up a glass wall—allowing her to run into his chambers.

 _Run, you idiot, run!_ Her mind screams at her to move as fast as she can—and so she does. She's spent weeks memorizing the castle blueprints—she knows that she needs to leave via the very last door in the main hallway, down a narrow staircase…

 _… (Shattering sound of breaking crystal)…_

She screams as she falls, her hands automatically flying out to brace herself—she screams some more as her palms fall flat on razor sharp shards of broken crystal. _Stupid fucking shoes! Clearly, they were useless for running_. Her knees and feet are covered with glass splinters—some shards embedded within her flesh. The pain is viciously unbearable.

He watches her stumble—her crystal slippers break into a million different shards that cut into her skin. A slow, _cruel_ smile breaks out on his face—his eyes glint with unhidden malice. He sees her raise her head to look at him and his smile deepens. "What a mess you've made… _Sa_ - _rah_."

Sarah's face turns white as blood drains from her face—her lips part wide open. "You knew," she whispers—a statement, not a question. She still sits on broken pieces of glass, the shock of hearing her name from his lips rendering her temporarily frozen.

The Goblin King's smile turns from malicious to downright terrifying—his sharp canines in full display. "The clock's struck midnight, yet you're still here, my precious creature—do you know what this means?" He chuckles darkly at her expression, she'd fear him this time around, alright. He'd make _damn_ sure of it. "Don't look like such a terrified little rabbit, my darling little fox, _answer me_."

A spark of anger lights up in her chest at his derisive command. "Let me guess—I get to be your special friend?" she retorts, her voice laced with false bravado.

He makes an elaborate hand gesture in agreement. "Right you are." Saying that he swoops down and lifts her up, re-wrapping her up in the bedsheet, and carrying her back to her glass prison.

* * *

She finds him leaning against the wall—his usual spot—when she awakens. Her hands and knees are bandaged—she doesn't feel much pain.

After a few moments of silence, he finally speaks, "You've sought my attention for a long time, precious one. You have it." His words are full of dark promise and his gaze is scorching hot. He's clothed in dark grey this time.

Giving him a weak smile, she replies, "I guess I should have been more careful what I wished for."

He raises a discerning brow. "For someone who's at the mercy of her nemesis for eternity, you seem quite cheerful."

Sarah Williams shocks her so-called nemesis when her weak smile turns into full-fledged grin. "That works the other way around as well, _Your Majesty_ ," she says his title with mock sincerity. "Maybe it's _me_ who has _you_ for eternity." A maniacal glint lights her eyes as a hint of shock lines his features. "After all, you seem to have made all these preparations…" she indicates the glass room, "…just for little old me." Saying that, she laughs—she laughs until tears stream down her face. In spite of losing, she'd won… _hadn't she?_

Pursing his thin lips into a cold line, the Goblin King stares back at his half crazed mortal. He reaches her bedside in three long strides, satisfied when her eyes widen with fear. He trails a leather clad finger down her pale cheek, "I am well known for my cruelty, _precious thing_ —and you have been…shall we say…a _fixation_ that threatens my very existence." He holds her chin in his hand—his fingers forcing her to turn her face towards him. "I've dreamt of a thousand different ways of causing you pain over the years, my love—and I shall make every _single_ dream a reality. Are you not afraid?"

Her laughter dies down, but the mad grin remains on her face. "Of course I'm afraid, _Jareth_ , but that's beside the point," she says his name playfully, "…but I'll let you in on a secret—I like pain. I cherish pain— _starve_ for pain. Pain, power, pleasure, they're all spokes on the same wheel, _Your Majesty_."

Thus, for the second time in her short, mortal life, Sarah Williams renders the Goblin King speechless.

* * *

To end or not to end—that is the question. I think this story warrants a small, resolution type, ending chapter. Let's see.

This had a bit of a fairytale—you know which one. Wanted to write a **devious Cinderella** because aren't we all tired of goody-two-shoes, sappy bitches who sing to birds and mice? Also—glass shoes should break if you run in them, no?

Wanted to reassure everyone that I will update my fics—in the meantime, I HAVE to recommend an amazing series I found by **Tiffany Reisz – The Original Sinners (** which certainly has a hand in helping me write this fic **)** —get it on your Kindle right away. That it's been marketed as a 'Mills and Boons' (Harlequin equivalent) book is a travesty—this series is INSANE. And by that I mean **insanely amazing**. The heroine's voice is possibly the most hilarious voice I've _ever_ read. Laugh out loud hilarious—sarcastic, witty, well read, theological at times.

While reading a BDSM book or fanfic, has your inner goddess asked?

 **1.** OMG did some undersexed, middle aged, woman write up a fantasy of her younger-self fucking the Twilight guy/ magical Bowie?

 **2.** Why is the sex so boring—can you get an orgasm from that? Some 14 year old is going to have damn impossible expectations.

 **3.** Why is everyone (apart from the heroine) in this story described as rich but actually reads like a Honey Boo Boo character?

 **4.** Why does the protagonist dress like she's a cast member of Jersey Shore? Can't kinky outfits be made from something decent and natural instead of cheap, synthetic fabrics and cubic zirconia?

 **5.** Is every fucking character in this story completely fucking illiterate?

My inner goddess asks these questions 9 out of 10 times while reading _anything_ described as BDSM—my inner goddess is also a raging bitch, there's no denying that.

Anyways—I asked NONE ( **absolutely NONE** ) of these questions when reading this series. The heroine is a gorgeous, kick ass, grown up woman who is intelligent and witty but also vulnerable—the relationships are unconventional to say the least. There's a ton of BDSM in this fic—and _not_ of the -undersexed, middle aged woman imagines her younger self getting spanked by Costco-sized dick guy- variety.

It had everything that I generally hate—men who slap on the face (hard enough to cause neck sprains), women (and men) who agree to be property, *really* underage sex, professor student stuff, 'sessions' that end up in the hospital, 'sharing and loaning' someone else, you name it—and I still LOVED it b/c it's written (and written about) so well—and IMO in a completely non-sexist manner. [Like I said, it's _not_ of the undersexed, middle-aged woman's Edward/Jareth fantasy variety].

That said, it isn't Shakespeare. But it is well written and extremely entertaining (in a good way). Brilliant dialogue. Smart, strong female character. A whole slew of varied, interesting male characters. Some very interesting discussions on religion (surprisingly, some thoughtful theological philosophies). Try it. I'm sure you can get it somewhere online for free, but please, BUY it—authors like this are rare and should be rewarded.

Oh—and watch the new Curb Your Enthusiasm episode. Hilarious is not the word. Beyond hilarious. Larry David is genius.


	2. Epilogue

**AN:** And here we go—resolution. More like brief vignettes of their life ' _together_.' *yup, 'together' is in quotations*

 **WARNING** : Fairly dark and twisted themes. Beware ye Bessie Mays.

 **AN** : erm…was supposed to write this on Sunday but got a mani / pedi instead. Have Halloween themed nails so was worth it! Happy Halloween!

 **A Prison of Glass and Crystal: Epilogue**

* * *

 **Master and Slave, Slave and Master**

 _(An indeterminate amount of time later, the Goblin King's Masquerade Ball)…_

 _"I heard she lives in a forest, deep within the Labyrinth. Sleeps on the dirt and bathes in the stream—completely barbaric."_

 _"I heard she lives in a glass box."_

 _"If she lives in the middle of the forest, where did she get that dress?"_

 _"Him, of course—he's in love with her."_

 _"The King? With his mortal slave?_ Impossible _."_

 _Laughter follows._

 _"He hasn't given her a title, he hasn't allotted her any lands or even a household—that glass box she lives in doesn't count—she can only leave when he allows her to leave."_

 _"I heard he's given her unfettered access to the Labyrinth—he lets her run wild. She may be his slave in social standing, but he doesn't treat her like one—some say he may as well be hers."_

Sarah Williams smiles as she walks past the chattering courtiers, completely at ease with their conversation. She wears a brilliant white dress made of the finest spider silk, and on her neck, wrists, and ankles, she wears a set of thin, delicate silver chains—so intricately crafted that they look like fine jewelry. She laughs at the thought—however fine, her chains are most definitely _not_ jewelry. Instead, they showcase his ownership over her very being.

Walking slowly enough that all eyes turn towards her, she flashes them a dazzling smile—one that grows wider as they take a step back. "My Lords and Ladies," she says, her voice low and melodic as she curtseys deeply before turning back and making her way towards a highly entertained Goblin King.

" _Sa_ - _rah_ ," he says, an amused twist to his bow-shaped lips. "You've made _quite_ an entrance."

She curtsies even lower. "Did you expect any less, _Your Majesty_?" Her voice is low and teasing as she says his title.

He replies with deep, rumbling laughter. "Rise," he says after a sufficient amount of time has passed. His pulse quickens as his cruel eyes rake up and down her form—he sighs, the effect she has on him is deliciously exhausting. "Come, sit," he commands, indicating his lap.

Raising her brows, she does as he asks. In his world, a mortal slave sitting on her owner's lap is unheard of, a mortal slave sitting on her King's lap may as well be blasphemous. She ignores the gasps and whispers that spread through the ballroom, choosing to focus on the mercurial King instead. "You're scandalizing your guests, _Your Majesty_."

He doesn't answer—instead he locks his dual gaze onto hers as a leather clad hand caresses her naked leg—one that peeks out of the slit on her dress. He runs the palm of his hand across her flesh in slow strokes, his fingers curl into her upper thigh. His lips hover against the throbbing pulse on her neck as his other hand teases a nipple through the fabric of her dress.

She rests her head against his chest, breathing growing shallower by the second. It doesn't matter to her that they're in a ballroom full of nobles and courtiers. She may be his mortal possession, but she's also his obsession—and she knows it. _Who holds power over whom, Goblin King_ , she thinks, gasping as he rolls her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

A loud cough interrupts their public display. "Goblin King…"

Annoyed at the interruption, Jareth turns to look at a neighboring prince who bows before him. "Rise," he commands, voice jaded.

The much younger prince coughs some more and gazes at the mortal woman sitting on the Goblin King's lap, utter dislike written blatantly across his features. "I have something of importance to share, perhaps your mortal can be deposited elsewhere for the moment…"

She laughs at his hostility. "I apologize for being an inconvenience, Prince…what's your name again? Something with a T, isn't it?"

"The punishment for a mortal slave speaking out of turn is quite severe. Do not address me again."

The Goblin King raises a bemused brow. "I'm afraid that's not enough to warrant a punishment in my Kingdom, Prince…what _is_ your name?" He lifts her off of his lap, indicating that she should stand. "With so many neighboring kingdoms, it's difficult keeping track sometimes."

She doesn't pay attention when the Prince declares his name and recites his various titles through gritted teeth. Bowing her head low, she decides to play with him just a little more. "I'm sorry for speaking out of turn—I'm fairly new to the place and don't quite know all the rules." Her tone is anything _but_ apologetic—neither is the smirk on her face.

The Prince snarls, "Be grateful that the Goblin King thinks your atrocious behavior is not enough to warrant a punishment, mortal…if it were up to me, I would-"

 _-the Prince's tirade is cut off as a resounding slap is heard across the ballroom - a red palm print is clearly visible across his pale face-_

"Is _that_ enough to warrant a punishment, _Your Majesty_?" Sarah asks, eyes sparkling with wicked humor. "I do so hate to disappoint."

Throwing his head back, the Goblin King laughs with abandon. "Yes."

* * *

 **The Eternal Game**

 _(An indeterminate amount of time later, the Goblin King's chambers)…_

She lies on her stomach, sighing softly as he runs his healing fingers across her back. Turning her head she looks at the ornate mirror that's located above his bed and relishes the sight. Her entire back has crisscrossing blue and purple marks—angry red cuts run along her upper arms and thighs. He'd been particularly brutal with the dagger tonight…and she'd _loved_ him for it. In her mind, she looks like a work of art.

He heals her like he normally does, so that she won't have any permanent scars…but the _pain_. _God_ , the pain had been excruciating—and how she _longs_ for more. She studies the purple bruises around her wrists—a low hiss emanating from her lips as she traces a sharp cut along the inside of her arm. The sting is enough to reawaken her desire and her skin tingles in anticipation. She's reminded of the time he'd almost… _well_ …she grins maniacally…he'd almost killed her, hadn't he? Her fingers dig into the cut and she moans in pain.

"Do not reopen the cuts I healed, little fox."

She peers into his dual gaze questioningly. "Why not?" she enquires, the grin still on her face. She touches the cut again, this time, raking her fingernails across her skin until she bleeds. "I know how much you enjoy healing me, _Your Majesty_. Wrecking me…tearing me apart…slicing me open and putting me back together again. You're so very… _ironic_ …that way."

In one swift motion, he grabs her arm and runs his tongue along the cut—healing it. As much as he loves tearing her apart, her self-destructive tendencies disturb him far more than he lets on. "Behave yourself, precious thing," he rumbles, kneeling to focus on healing the cuts along her thighs.

She laughs, "Where's the fun in that?" Flipping onto her freshly healed back, she looks up at him—her arms are spread wide across the bed and her sable locks flow smoothly against her body. "Wouldn't want to make it too easy for you, _Your Majesty_ ," she teases.

He drinks in her naked form—spread before him as an offering of sorts. "You remember what happened the last time you tried pushing me, _precious thing_?"

She gives him a playful wink. "Of course—wouldn't mind a repeat, actually."

And just like that, the lines on his face are hard as his expression turns deadly serious. "You were in deep sleep for four full days, Sarah. My healers were not sure you'd survive." His deep voice resonates with anger and _something else_ …something akin to fear. He hates to admit it, but the reality of losing her had frightened him to the point of madness. He's never forgotten her fragility as a mortal since.

Closing her eyes, she sighs—trapped in her lust ridden memories. "But the moment right before…?" her voice takes on a dreamlike quality as she recollects the exact moment before she'd lost consciousness. "Your hands holding my neck, whip curled around my torso—the smell of leather and blood" she closes her eyes, voice hitching as her blood runs hot with need. "…Your teeth breaking my skin and your cock inside me…" her body moves, sliding against his—she throws her head back and releases an anguished moan. "I came so hard you had to hold down my hips. Death may have been worth it."

His eyes flash dangerously. "Do not joke." He'd crushed her windpipe—the force of the whip had broken more than a few ribs. Her body had gone cold as her pulse had slowly diminished… _almost_.

Opening her eyes, she gazes at him—amused to see him so serious. "I haven't shattered yet, have I?" She runs her fingers against the faint white scar on his ribcage. "I branded you with iron afterwards…wouldn't you say we're even?"

He doesn't answer—but the memory of the searing hot pain that had threated to consume him only ignites his desire.

She smiles knowingly—rising up so that their faces are inches apart. "I remain your mortal slave, _Your Majesty_ —as _touching_ as I find your concern, I must leave for my glass prison."

A harsh laugh. "Not yet, little fox. You will leave when I allow it." Saying that he flips their position so that she straddles him—groaning as he feels her warm, wet center rub against his erection. "Let's play another game."

"Goblin King, Goblin King," she whispers, leaning into him so that her nipples brush against his chest. She reaches for her silver lighter, placed at the far edge of his bed and flips it open. "Will you burn for me?"

* * *

 **And they lived happily ever after…**

Haha.

More like: and they lived dysfunctionally ever after—had lots of hot monkey (and sometimes scary) sex—but not _all_ the time because he _is_ a king, and that's a demanding job.

* * *

It's been 'all quiet on the troll front' –I've gotten used to the pearl clutching that goes on in Laby fandom and/or my ANs—no one was shocked with this piece? I am le sad.

 **Tropes included:**

 **Teacher and Student** : I know some people find this hot and think teachers exude dominance but as an adult you're like 'they make 30K a year to herd children and wear khakis. Where's the dominance, yo?' So I took the trope and twisted it.

 **The Nurturing Woman** : People tend to write Sarah as this selfless, nurturing woman who wants to either 'save' Jareth or 'take care of' Jareth or 'be the light to his darkness' or some other clichéd bullshit. Free advice, young peeps: people who martyr themselves on a 'selfless' pedestal usually end up embittered doormats. So yea, I turned Sarah into another extreme entirely, but we definitely need more sociopathic women in stories, don't we? Why should men get to have all the fun?

 **Dominant Jareth** : is he, a _lways_? People with normal life spans get bored of the same old sex routine – a being who lives that long would probably want to try everything he can think of. Including a reversal of roles.

 **The Good Pure Heroine VS the Dark Villain (but-not-quite)** : I don't hate this trope per se (hell, I've used it more than once), but I hate the way it's done most of the time. Aren't we so fucking sick as being given the 'redeemer of wayward men' role? This is the kind of dangerous belief that drives *that one friend* into dating the same loser-asshole again and again, because 'omg, he's so damaged and needs help.' Never saw the appeal in damaged and unsuccessful and low self-esteemed– dark and cunning and highly successful and self-assured—now _that_ is way more appealing combination.

As for the heroine— **pure is overrated** —'smart' overrides good any day. 'Brainy is the new sexy.' Sarah's more of a mental, sociopathic, brunette version of Dawn and Stacey (maybe with a dash of Claudia) and nothing like Mary Anne or worse, Mallory (yee-ikes, who'd wanna be Mallory?). Cookies for those who got both references.

Ta.

Would love to hear your thoughts. Even if you're a Mallory.


End file.
